Unfortunately, this small act of decency never came about.
“Good evening, Mr. Clark,” said the police officer who had told Sam about Sinead. He was with the same, younger police officer I still can’t properly recall. It was this man who asked, “Do you mind if we come in?”
“Of course not,” said Sam.
They went inside, and their footsteps seemed loud. The police officers stepped around his bags.
“Are you moving?” asked the older one.
“I’m just going away for a while.”
“Whereabouts?”
“The Philippines.”
The officer nodded but made no reply. Sam looked at his watch. In fourteen hours he would leave for the airport.
The older police officer started to speak, then coughed. He recovered quickly. “Are you a friend of Malea Ocampo?”
The question did not shock Sam. He had imagined bad news too often to be surprised. There was only one thing to ask.
“Is she dead?”
The police officers looked at each other. The younger one spoke. “She’s in the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“We can’t say yet. Can you tell us where you were yesterday?”
“When?”
“Between twelve and three o’clock.”
“I was at work.”
“And where’s that?”
“The bookshop. Look, I need to see her. Which hospital is she in?”
“She’s at Western General. But she may be unable to receive visitors.” It sounded like a warning.
“Mr. Clark, can you tell me about the nature of your relationship with Miss Ocampo? Have you known her long?”
“About a year. And we don’t need to be coy about this. I was a client of hers. I’m sure you already know this.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m not the one you should be talking to. You should speak to Mr. Asham. I don’t know if it was him, but he’s hurt her before.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she told me. And I’ve seen the bruises.”
Sam didn’t know if they believed him. My guess is that they took it seriously enough to question Mr. Asham. Why else would he have taken that unexpected trip? If they hadn’t done so, he would not have Survived. He wouldn’t have had those thirty-five years in Lahore. He would not have died, aged ninety-one, from choking on a frog.
The police officers stood. “We may have some other questions—how can we contact you?”
After they left, the facts unfurled.
She was covered in blood.
She was covered in blood and on the floor.
She was covered in blood and on the floor, and still Asham kicked her.
As the scene expanded, so did the pain. Sam brought his palms to his face, pushed their heels against his chin, his fingertips against his forehead, as if their combined pressure could contain the event. When he closed his eyes, which were already covered, he was attempting a trick that only children can accomplish. They can make things disappear. If they don’t like their world, they can just unmake it.
* * *
HE WENT OUT and got in a taxi and said, “To Western General.” He’d never noticed that the name of the hospital was so martial. He imagined a city in quadrants, each ruled by a warlord, with walls and zones where you’d be shot if you did not belong. Soon he would reach a checkpoint where he would have to give his name, show his papers, provide explanations.
Although the roads were busy, the taxi was not delayed. When Sam arrived, the receptionist asked him what ward Malea was in.
“I don’t know. Maybe intensive care?”
She was not there. Nor was she in the high dependency unit. For a few moments Sam was able to hope it had all been some implausibly convoluted mistake involving multiple cases of mistaken identity. Then the receptionist said, with too much triumph, “She’s in ward eleven.”
Turning corners, trusting signs, Sam moved past people on their best behaviour. Part of this was professional—the good conduct of nurses and doctors—but the patients were playing their part. Whether gliding in wheelchairs, awkward on crutches, or moving in a cautious manner due to hidden wounds, all of them had the composure of people who expect to be rewarded for following the rules.
The corridors kept branching off. It was a tour of the organs. From hearts to kidneys to brains and then the genitals. There were so many scenes that felt private. Alasdair was right: This was where Sam belonged.
He passed slowly down a corridor lined with children and their parents. The chairs were orange, the walls lime green; a poster showed a laughing panda getting an injection.
Ward eleven was at the end of a corridor that had been zealously cleaned. The smell of disinfectant made him feel sick. If he went outside and took slow, deep breaths, there would still be time to visit.
He had turned away when the ward’s door slid open. He looked back to see who was coming through, but no one had appeared. It was obviously so sensitive he had triggered it from ten feet away. Now that it was open he could see the rows of beds. At the far end he could just make out a small head with black hair.
At the entrance a nurse asked his name and whom he had come to see. As she wrote it down she said, “And please clean your hands.” She gestured to a bottle of hand sanitiser. He squirted some on his hands and rubbed them together; it felt as if sparks were jumping from them. Though not an unpleasant feeling, it made him recall being drugged. All those waves had travelled through him; it had felt so good. Sinead had picked the best drug.
“She’s over here,” said the nurse. “But I don’t know how much she’ll be able to talk. We had to sedate her heavily. Are you a relative?”
“A friend.”
He waited for a knowing look, a twitch of disapproval. But the nurse only said, “This way.”
As Sam passed between the beds, his heart was beating fast. His chest hurt. He was going to be sick. This was far too real. If only Malea would turn, present her face, give him the luxury of a few seconds before he had to speak. That would be enough time to get used to being horrified.
Her head stayed still; she did not move. They were halfway there. He looked to one side, then quickly back, hoping that things would alter in the meantime. To his right a fat man was reading the Bible. Ahead the view was the same. When he looked left he saw a girl stretching a piece of gum between her teeth and fingers. She met his gaze and stretched it more. “I’ll see if Malea’s awake,” said the nurse.
She pulled at a curtain, which resisted then gave with a scraping sound. He was then confronted by a face with aspirations. It was going to be a new face quite unlike the old. In place of the usual brown outside was a red with the highest of hopes. It wanted to contain all other colours while remaining itself. Though blue, black, and green were missing, orange, purple, and yellow were definitely present. Other changes were deeper, structural. The aspect of her nose had changed. One of her eyes was closed, as if whatever was going on behind the lid were supposed to be secret. But there was no mystery about the stitches in her forehead and cheeks.
“Sam,” she said. He sat. Perhaps it was the lighting, or the size of the bed, but Malea seemed smaller.
She tried to sit up, and the blanket slipped down; both her arms were bandaged.
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. You warned me. It was my choice.”
“So it was him?”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “He came to my house. As soon as I let him in, he started hitting me.”
“Did he say why?”
She swallowed, and it seemed to hurt. She placed her hand on her throat.
“He didn’t say anything.”
“Nothing?”
He had to tell her. It would mean the end of things but he had no choice.
“I thought he was going to kill me. He just didn’t stop.”
The only question was when. This wasn’t the right moment. She had b
een through too much.
“I’m sorry,” he said, but she couldn’t answer. Tears were oozing from her closed eye, falling from the other. He knew nothing about that kind of pain. Sean had been an amateur. Mr. Asham had been angry, but he’d been controlled. Sean’s attack had been a beating in the street that could have been stopped at any time. Malea’s beating had taken place in her home, in private, without the risk of interruption. Sam imagined Mr. Asham pausing after each strike, considering where to aim next.
“That fucker,” Sam said, and it was a relief to have his emotions lurch. Being angry felt better. He thought of punching Mr. Asham, the bastard raising his hands to his face, then being hit in the stomach, the balls. But whatever he did to Mr. Asham would not make amends.
“Here,” he said, and passed her a tissue. It was a pathetic gesture, but he was glad she took it, which was more pathetic yet. She wiped her eyes. She was still crying. The normal, compassionate response to tears—what you could do even to a stranger—was to hold their hand, put yours on their shoulder, smooth their hair from their face. But he could not touch Malea. There had already been too many unwanted hands.
She stopped crying. Her breathing slowed. He could hear the low-pitched buzz of other visitors. The loudest voice was a man discussing his operation.
He stood and went to the curtain, hoping to peek through without moving it. Unfortunately, the nurse had been considerate. She had drawn it tight. When he pulled the curtain, it stuck. He pulled again, harder, and then it moved, but with a shearing sound. Behind him, Malea stirred.
“Sam?”
“Yes?”
“You shouldn’t wait. Go, I’ll see you there.”
“Where?”
“At the San Sebastian Church. In two weeks.”
I don’t know how Malea knew he was also going to Manila. Perhaps the reservation listed the number of passengers on the booking. More likely she heard through one of her clients that he was also leaving. It would not have taken an inspired guess to figure out his destination, or that he planned to go with her.
Joyfully, somewhat emboldened, he said, “No, I’ll change our tickets. We can both go then.”
“I don’t want to. I want to go on my own.”
“But why?” he asked, hearing, and hating, the pleading in his voice.
“Because I don’t want to see you again. Not here. And if we meet in Manila, we will not talk about any of this. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do,” he said, because being hurt didn’t affect his ability to lie.
Her reply was measured, calm and deliberate. “Do you? I do not think so. You did a kind thing for me, and I am very grateful. But I am not in love with you. I am not your girlfriend. I had sex with you because you paid me. If we meet at San Sebastian you should act as if we have never met. If you talk about anything here, I will walk away.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you can’t.”
He wasn’t sure she cared. But he was sure she meant it. This wasn’t how he wanted them to part. He didn’t want to get on a plane without her, let alone spend two weeks in Manila on his own, waiting for someone who either would not show up or would treat him like a stranger if she did.
From close by he heard the tinkling of a little bell. It was a high, sweet sound, almost like birdsong—if not a Daurian redstart, then a lesser coucal.
A woman’s voice said firmly, “Visiting time is over.”
He looked at Malea. “See you in two weeks?” he said. He was sure of nothing. If he couldn’t expect a declaration—there were no feelings to declare—he wanted to be sure they’d meet.
Afterwards he could not decide what the pause that followed meant. It could have been hesitation. A wavering of resolve. But whatever she’d decided, it was easier to say yes. When she said this it sounded like she meant it.
The bell rang more insistently. Sometimes those birds sound angry. If I hadn’t been up this morning—I can never sleep the night before the anniversary—they would have woken me. I half expected them to fly through the windows.
Sam didn’t want to stand, but he did. There was still time to tell her what he’d said to Mr. Asham. After this, when they met again—not if—it would be part of a life she wouldn’t discuss. There’d be no chance of absolution; his guilt could only fester.
“OK, see you then,” he said, and felt both crushed and relieved. His punishment would be lingering, painful; but it was convenient. Even now, it is not the guilty who decide their sentence.
A last glance at Malea’s battered face, its crooked nose, the single eye that stared. Then he was stepping through the curtain, passing down the aisle. The other patients seemed to stare. Had they heard, and if so, did they care? They had their troubles, as did the nurse and the children in that cheerful corridor. They were guilty of some things, innocent of others, like him in most respects except that he Survived.
When Sam left the hospital, the wind was shoving the clouds. It would take an hour to walk back, but he wanted the distraction. That was how he planned to get through the next two weeks. On the flight he’d do as Abby suggested; in Manila he’d walk. He’d go to bars and clubs and lose himself in crowds.
He approached two taxi drivers leaning on their cars. As he came near they fell silent, then tried to make eye contact. When this failed to get his attention, one of them whistled, but softly, not in the piercing, insolent way the taxi drivers do here. When I came back from Vang Vieng last year, there was a woman who made my ears ring. When I stared at her and shook my head, I was more justified than Sam in doing so. Admittedly, he was hungry and somewhat distraught, but there was no need for him to say “cunt” under his breath. I wish that the driver had responded by punching Sam in the face. It would have been well deserved, and maybe more instructive than the beating he had gotten from Sean. I am, of course, not advocating violence as a means of moral education. But it is not always a terrible thing to be kicked and punched by strangers, whether they are drunks on a bench, taxi drivers, or flag-wearing men. Despite the pain and damage to the body, in the long run the beating may help. My injuries were very useful during my confinement.
Unfortunately, the taxi driver was too exhausted to care about Sam’s comment. Sam left the hospital grounds and walked by the side of the road. Initially there was the distraction of feeling he’d been wronged. He berated the taxi driver, the man apologised, then Sam repeated the charge. Though it was gratifying to imagine this, it was a thin complaint, no match for what Mr. Asham had done to Malea. If this was not bad enough, what was worse was that Mr. Asham would probably go unpunished. Without Malea’s testimony, there was just Sam’s accusation. While they were living new lives in Manila—perhaps together, perhaps apart—Mr. Asham would still be selling bread and newspapers behind that shop counter. He’d be there another decade, growing worn, slowly fading, just like his shop coat. Eventually there’d be a morning, perhaps in winter, when he’d realise that the stupid, trivial shop had been his entire life. He’d be seventy, seventy-five; too old to become someone else. Hopefully he’d have a heart attack right there at the counter. His old hands would clutch his chest; he’d make a strangled sound. He’d lie there, alone, in pain; his final sight would be a shelf of fizzy drinks.
Sam was too absorbed in his fantasy to notice himself being surrounded. Their footsteps were heavy, their breathing desperate; he felt like their prey. What was most unnerving was not being able to see their faces. After a flash of profile there was only the retreating back of their heads. And still they kept running past, their bodies lean and sexless. He did not think it was a race. They wore no wristbands or numbers. They were running together for some other reason.
The runners passed. He relaxed. He watched their pale limbs rise and fall until they disappeared. He kept walking, as I am walking, slowly, focussed on muscles and tendons, the press of the ground against his soles. It felt as if his movement were an automatic process in which he had no part. Legs
pulled body from the left then right—in his case with little effort, in mine with a degree of care that approaches suspicion.
There isn’t much I envy Sam. He was stupid and naïve and hurt so many people. But he was walking twice as quickly as I can. I have walked along this promenade thousands of times, and the vista is always impressive: Only a very limited person can be bored of the sea. But there are still moments when I want it to flow past me more quickly. Instead I must shuffle round the long bend of the coast, the pier a sketch against the sky that mocks me with its distance. The best I can do is remember running as I walk so slowly. It lets me be here, there, back in time, ten minutes in the future. I can be Sam, who had started running. Away from the hospital, away from Malea, but also towards leaving. There were still things to be done. He had to change her ticket. He had to get his bags. He had to go to the airport and get on a plane, but that could not be all. He was going to burn down Mr. Asham’s shop.
I don’t know why young people enjoy destruction so much. Perhaps they don’t feel attached to the world. Or maybe they resent it for existing first.
When Sam got home, he half expected to see police outside. But no one else had died, so he was able to go in, undress, turn on the shower, and stand beneath the stream. If the water was still hot when his knees gave way, it was not because he couldn’t stand—he could—but because standing was pointless. There was no need to keep muscles tense and ligaments stretched while maintaining his balance. He got just as wet when sitting, and in many ways it was better. The water struck his skin with greater force.
As the pier comes close I see the queue for the tunnel and shiver.
Was the water getting cold? Not yet. As soon as he felt it doing so he would get out. He would put on his clothes and shoes, and then he would be out the door.
It is not a big queue, maybe thirty people. Usually there are hundreds. That it is here every day, sometimes shorter, usually longer, reminds me of a book I read so long ago I can remember nothing of it except a single scene. It took place in what was then Portugal, or maybe what was Spain. It was during a time of crisis so great that people were choosing to die. The bells of the churches rang at all hours. Outside people queued in the thousands, calmly waiting, sometimes for days, to be mercifully killed by the priests.
The Casualties Page 22